


Sibling Rivalry

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: F/M, Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-06
Updated: 2010-02-10
Packaged: 2019-11-24 05:30:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18162032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Getting to know a sibling all over again can be quite a challenge.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Book universe.** Suppose Mark's brother was older and very similar to Mark in personality and demeanour… 
> 
> Disclaimer: Pretty sure you've figured this out already, but: Isn't mine.

_The first week of June_

Being on an airplane and flying half-way around the world was the last thing Mark Darcy wanted to be doing at this point in time. It was too quiet; his ability to distract himself was limited; his parents, with whom he was travelling, were asleep; the cabin lights were still dimmed. All he had, therefore, were his own thoughts to occupy him. The fact that whenever he closed his eyes he could only see her, the woman he loved, as he'd seen her last, practically blanketed in children (and looking beautiful so blanketed), was a torture beyond compare.

He shifted in his seat, looked out of the window and at the pink- and gold-tinged clouds; they were flying towards the rising sun, so at least it was not like looking into a mirror anymore, a mirror into which he was not pleased at all to gaze.

The alternative, staying home, would not have been much better, and at least he would be distracted and with family once he arrived in Hong Kong. It didn't make the trip, the forced contemplation, any easier to bear; he could only see her face, could only turn over in his head how things had gone so horribly wrong with the only woman he ever had truly loved. He'd been sure that the gap between February and May would have been more than enough time to have distanced himself from his feelings, but seeing her again, particularly with children, had reinforced all too well that he had been incapable of doing anything of the sort—

With a heavy sigh, he made himself turn his thoughts to the wedding. Peter's wedding.

He had never met his future sister-in-law, the woman his elder brother was about to marry, but he was sure he knew exactly what she'd be like. Always fond of a little competition, friendly or otherwise, Peter always went after high-class, cultured women, the ambitious, A-type personality… the real go-getters of the world. He cared little for love; rather, merely loved a challenge.

With a small measure of regret, Mark realised he would have, at one time, been accused of the same.

"Mark?" From across the aisle, it was his mother's voice. He turned away from the window to look at her. Next to her, his father was sound asleep, eye mask and all. "Everything all right?"

He forced a smile and nodded. "Just can't sleep."

"You should try," she said, looking sympathetic. "It's a long flight, and we'll have a busy schedule once we get there."

"I know. Just can't…" He cleared his throat. "Well."

She rose from her seat to take the empty one beside him, then patted his knee affectionately. Quietly she asked, "It's Bridget, isn't it?"

He was stunned, and nodded slightly to confirm it.

She chuckled. "I must look like a mind-reader, but Mark, I know you well enough to know when you're distracted. Add sadness to the mix, and there's only one conclusion to be drawn."

He looked down to where he had his hands folded in his lap.

"I know that you love her," she said tenderly. "It's not something that would be obvious to anyone who doesn't know you as well as I do."

He sighed. He had hoped he hadn't been that transparent. "I can't deny it," he said at last. "As much as I'd prefer to put it behind me, I can't."

"Is there no hope for reconciliation?"

"I doubt it," he said. "She doesn't seem to trust me."

Elaine pursed her lips. "Taking another woman out probably did not help."

"That's ridiculous," he said, quickly and angrily, knowing exactly to what she was referring. "Rebecca only asked if I wanted to share a taxi. That is all. If Bridget had given me a chance to explain… but she didn't, and that's that." He thought of how frequently Rebecca had confided to him how many men were chasing after Bridget, thought of Sinjun, of that message from Gary, and of that secret admirer's Valentine, and felt another rush of anger wash through him. "If she's tired of me and would rather just move on, wants to latch on to an innocent taxi ride as an excuse to chuck me, there isn't much I can do to change her mind."

"Yes, Mark, there is," she said, reaching for his hand. "You just have to open up about your feelings."

A derisive snort of laughter escaped him.

"I know, I know. It goes against everything that is expected of men; British men, no less," she said. "But the important thing is not to make assumptions, and don't let your pride get in the way of what you want. Talk to her." She squeezed his hand. "Did you know that she saw you sharing that innocent taxi ride, she was with her mum and Una Alconbury? You must know how they tortured her over it, Mark. Consider how hurt she was, how betrayed and embarrassed… I'm not sure I wouldn't have chucked you myself, were I in her shoes."

He was surprised once more, both by what she said, and the anger in her own voice. 

"And given that Rebecca seems to have no compunction about inviting herself along, like the day we were in town to see you for lunch—"

"I mentioned you were coming, and she insisted on helping. It seemed only polite to accept."

Elaine seemed about to launch into another speech when his father Malcolm called for her. Instead she sighed. "Mark," she said resignedly. "At least promise me you'll talk to Bridget."

"I'll think about it," he said, though privately doubted she would talk to him.

………

The rest of the flight went well enough—he managed to get a few hours of sleep after all—but he could not stop thinking about what his mother had said. Did Bridget truly think he was after Rebecca? Being unfaithful? How could she begin to believe such a thing? It was ridiculous, but he also was beginning to suspect it was entirely possible.

He also began to take his mother's admonition much to heart. He would have to try to talk to Bridget.

Upon arrival it was exactly as his mother had predicted: a whirlwind of activity. He hardly thought they touched upon the sheets of the hotel they'd booked. The wedding was lovely; sedate, understated and classy. His brother had not visibly changed—short-clipped dark hair not unlike Mark's own, still staying trim despite his forty years—and Mark could tell from the small smile that made it to his lips that despite a lifetime of competitiveness with his younger sibling (amiable or otherwise), Peter was as happy to see Mark as Mark was to see him. The brothers embraced, but only briefly. Mark knew Peter was not fond of physical displays of affection, even less so than Mark.

"I am so glad you could make it," said Peter. "We both are. Would not have felt right for my family not to be here." He turned to his bride. "Mother, Father, Mark… I'm sorry introductions are happening after she's joined our family, but… this is Augusta."

His brother's bride was about as he imagined: approximately Peter's age, English, tall and thin, hazel eyes, with stick-straight dark brown hair styled into a perfect bob. Her wedding dress was of cream silk, cut in simple lines with pearl decoration, understated and very elegant. Atop her head was a pearl-encrusted headband. The overall effect was that she looked like something out of an Art Nouveau art print, and it was a good look for her. She smiled shyly, shaking each of their hands in turn, taking Mark's last. "It's a pleasure to meet you after everything Peter's told me." Furrowing her brow, she asked of Mark, "So where's your girlfriend? I've heard interesting things about her."

Mark cleared his throat, glanced to his parents then to his brother. His mother had undoubtedly, in her infinite optimism, failed to inform Peter about the breakup. Even now Elaine looked unapologetic. "We… we've split."

Augusta had the good grace to look mortified. "Not a very good impression, I'm sure," she said, "putting my foot in my mouth straightaway. I'm sorry. I hadn't heard."

"It's all right," he said, smiling. He could only think how much he would've liked to have her there with him, half way around the world, a small bit of sanity from home.

………

It was on a flight back to London from that part of the world once again that Mark thought back to Peter's wedding a year prior, thought of how things had changed so radically in that relatively short amount of time. He glanced to the side, to the woman sleeping soundly beside him (and partially on his shoulder), and smiled fondly. He was thankful for the turn of events that had brought them back together, that following his mother's advice (and she following her own mother's apparently similar advice) had paid off so handsomely. He could not resist leaning to plant a kiss on the top of her head.

That caused her to rouse and push up her sleep mask. Her tousled hair tangled by the elastic made her look charming and adorable. "Something wrong?"

"Not at all, darling," he said. "Just glad to have had you with me for this trip, and looking forward to our next great adventure."

She perked up and sat straight, taking the mask from her eyes. "Los Angeles?"

He laughed. "No," he said, sorry to disappoint her. "I meant you and I. Living together."

"Oh," she said, deflating a bit, then added quickly, "I mean, not that I'm not looking forward to that too."

"I know." He slipped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. Their relationship since talking that night the previous autumn, the night they'd scared each other during the 'bullet man' crisis, had been leaps and bounds better than it ever had been before. Living together during their time in Thailand had only cemented things between them.

"Though I hope you know that I won't be able to stand all of that white," she said teasingly. "Maybe a few magnets on those steel doors to help mark out what's behind each one."

He chuckled. "Actually being in the kitchen on a regular basis and using what's behind those doors will help with that," he said.

Easing into cohabitation with Bridget went more smoothly than he anticipated; that was not to say it was easy, but every little bump was worth it. It was one thing to have spent nearly six months in a shared hotel suite with Bridget; it was somewhat different to have brought her into a space he had lived in on his own for many years.

His house now felt like a home. 

………

It was two months into living together when the telephone rang.

"Mark Darcy speaking," he said, as he always did.

The phone was rarely for him. This time it was.

"Mark, it's Peter."

"Peter!" It was an exceptionally good connection from Hong Kong. "How are you?"

"In need of a favour," he said.

"What do you need?" he asked.

Peter exhaled. "Augusta and I are back in the UK. We're in Grafton Underwood and find ourselves in a bit of a bind."

Back in the UK? He felt his eyebrows rise. "For good?"

Peter laughed. "For the foreseeable future, anyway."

"So what's wrong?"

"We're closing on a house… I believe near to you, actually. Near Holland Park. But we've hit a snag and can't move in next week as planned; instead, not for another three weeks. All the hotels are booked solid. Mother suggested I ring you up, that you have a guest room we might be able to use."

Mark's first response, to say yes, was mitigated in remembering that he wasn't the only one who had a say now, but then he realised that Bridget would not mind in the least, given her enthusiasm at talk of meeting them. "Yes, yes," said Mark. "That's fine. Plenty of room here. You're absolutely welcome."

"Oh, fantastic," said Peter, clearly relieved. "Not that I thought you'd say no, but I didn't know what we might do if for some reason you couldn't, and we have so much business to take care of there in London."

"How soon will you be here?" asked Mark. "So the room will be ready for you."

"Sunday would be ideal. Will you be home?"

"Absolutely."

Mark gave Peter the address—to which he proclaimed that they would practically be neighbours—and fixed for them to arrive in time for supper Sunday night before disconnecting the call.

Two days was plenty of preparation time, but he thought he best tell Bridget as soon as she came home from being out with her friends. He went to survey the guest bedroom; there were still a few of Bridget's boxes in there, things she intended for storage. He made short work of moving them from the room into their shared closet, then went hunting for the linens for the bed in there, as there was only a duvet on the mattress at present. He then unfurled the sheet and began trying to make the bed in earnest.

It was rather a losing battle. It didn't seem to fit properly, and the corners he so carefully tucked under kept popping off.

"What on earth…" It was Bridget, clearly a little tiddly; after a moment of staring, she began laughing uproariously. "What are you doing?"

"Making up the bed," he said, standing up, putting his hands on his hips.

"Oh, Mark, this is the top sheet. This is the bottom. It's fitted," she said, holding up the second sheet for him to see. "Why are you making up the bed?"

"Keep it up," he teased, "and it will be for _you_."

Pouting yet fighting a smile, she threw the fitted sheet down and embraced him; still laughing, she kissed him sweetly, then passionately. Truth be told, he loved how she got a little frisky when she was tipsy. He brought his hands to her back to hold her to him, but she pulled away. "Still going to kick me out of bed?"

"Not a chance," he said. 

"So who is this for, then?"

"My brother. And his wife."

She furrowed her brow. "What?"

"They're in Grafton Underwood," he said, feeling the first pangs of remorse for not consulting her first. "They're in need of a place to stay until their own house is ready. Three weeks at the most, he tells me. You're not upset, are you?"

She smiled at last. "No; rather the opposite. So looking forward to meeting them! But God, tonight?"

"No," he said.

She allowed her smile to broaden. "Good," she said, resuming her embrace, combing her fingers through his hair. The feel of her nails raking along his scalp was blissful. She kissed the corner of his mouth, then said, "I believe there was some business to attend to in our own bedroom."

………

The knock at the door startled Mark, though it should not have; Peter was not only always punctual, but usually early. He got to his feet to let his brother in, smiling broadly as he did so.

"Peter," he said, reaching out to take their suitcases. "Made it in good time, I wager."

"Smooth sailing, as Father is wont to say," Peter said.

"Augusta," Mark said, turning to his sister-in-law. "You're looking lovely."

She smiled reservedly. "Thank you, Mark," she said. "We are so thankful for your hospitality."

"Think nothing of it," said Mark. "You're family."

Peter pulled the door closed behind him, then took in the foyer. "Gorgeous," he said.

"Thank you," he said. He could not help but think how much it had improved with Bridget's input. "Let me show you up to your room."

"Thanks," he said as they went up the stairs. "If you don't mind me asking for some help with the rest."

"The rest?"

Peter chuckled. "We're not moving in for good," he said. "Most of our things are in storage awaiting the house. But we've got a few more bags with the rest of our day-to-day things."

"I promise you won't even know we're here," added Augusta.

Once they were shown to the room, bags obtained and delivered, they returned to the kitchen, where Mark had a roast in the oven. "Oh, smells delicious," said Peter. "Aside from eating well at Chez Darcy, I'm a little tired of takeaway food."

"Will your Bridget be joining us for supper?" said Augusta.

"Is this she?" asked Peter, finding a framed photo, taken at Jude's wedding. Mark nodded. "She's grown up into quite the pretty lady," he said. "I remember her being a kid. Hell on wheels. But so sweet."

Mark laughed at his brother's description of Bridget as a child. In some ways she had not significantly changed.

Peter continued, "I'm glad you were able to patch things up. I got to meet the Joneses when they came by for lunch. Just like I remember, and speak so highly of you, and how happy you are together. I can't wait to meet her again and get to know her."

Mark felt incredibly happy to hear Peter say so. He would have been loathe to admit it, but he wanted his brother's approval very much.

"Mark?" asked Augusta. "What's all this on your cabinet doors?"

Mark had completely forgotten about Bridget's magnetically-based navigation system on the stainless steel doors, and chuckled. He was about to explain when he heard footsteps upstairs. "Well, Peter, you're in luck. She's here." 

In short order he saw her descending the stairs, stopping in her tracks at the sight of the guests. "Hi," she said with a somewhat frozen smile, then added, "Oh! You must be Peter!" She ran down the rest of the way, then held her hand out to shake. "It's so nice to meet you at last."

She seemed to want to hug him, but more surprising to Mark was that he wanted to hug her, and awkwardly they attempted an embrace, tilting the same way and laughing at the botched effort after achieving a sort of success at last.

"It's nice to meet you _again_ ," said Peter with emphasis. "Though I'm sure you don't remember me. You were very small then."

With a bright smile, she turned to Augusta. "And you must be—" There was a horrifying moment where he thought Bridget might have forgotten her name, but he needn't have worried. "—Augusta." Forgoing handshakes, she gave Peter's wife a friendly hug. "It's really nice to meet you too." Stepping away, Bridget continued. "I'm so sorry I'm home late."

"For once you're not late," said Mark. "They're early."

She smirked then playfully tapped Mark on the shoulder.

Mark then noticed Peter's expression had subtly changed. "'Home'?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," said Bridget brightly. "I moved in after we returned from Thailand."

Peter tried to keep his features in check, but Mark could tell he was surprised by the tone of his voice, which went decidedly cool and stern as he looked squarely at Bridget. "I didn't get the impression your father knew about this."

Mark's stomach went thoroughly acidic. It hadn't occurred to him that Peter didn't realise they were living together, or might not approve of their living together before marrying.

"My father?" asked Bridget in reply.

"Yes," said Peter. "They came to lunch at my parents' today. No one mentioned you were living together."

Bridget laughed nervously, blushing crimson. "I haven't had a chance to tell my parents yet."

This statement surprised both brothers, eliciting raised single brows from both.

"Bridget," said Mark. "We've been living together for two months."

"Mark," she said between gritted teeth, "let's please talk about this later."

At that moment he was saved by the bell, literally, when the timer for the roast went off. "Why don't I help you set the table?" chirped Augusta.

"Yes, thank you," said Bridget with a great rush of breath, heading into the kitchen, examining the magnets before pulling open the cabinet with the dishes in it.

"Oh," Augusta asked. "Is that what those are for?"

Bridget explained the magnet system as the two women headed towards the table with plates, silverware and cloth napkins in their arms. Mark went to the oven to pull out the roast. He carved into it, saw it was perfectly done, and switched off the heat.

"Mark," said his brother from closely behind him. "Are you out of your mind?"

Mark turned around, startled. "What do you mean?"

"Her parents," he said; it did not clear things up until he added, "They hold you in terribly high esteem, have been friends with Mother and Father for years, and you don't show them the courtesy and respect they deserve to let them know you've brought their daughter into your home?"

Mark felt his jaw tense. "Open the red there, will you?" he asked, in lieu of replying right away.

Peter did as asked, but it was clear he was not going to take silence for an answer. "I'm waiting."

Mark looked to him. "I thought she'd already told them," he said. "Her relationship with her mother is a bit complicated, though."

"Mark, as a gentleman, the job was yours to do," Peter said.

"As I said," he said, "it did not occur to me that she had not told them. I will talk to Bridget and we will discuss this with her parents together."

"Table's ready when you are," called Bridget; with that, discussion of the living arrangements screeched to a halt. Mark put the roast and potatoes into a serving dish, then brought it to the dining table. Peter brought the wine as Bridget went back for wine glasses.

Mark felt in a somewhat foul, sulky mood after his chat with Peter, and was thankful that Bridget was her usual friendly, engaging self. She more than made up for his silence. What Peter said had bothered him… but he was also bothered by the fact that he sort of agreed a little.

"You had a good flight, I trust?" Bridget asked as she cut into her roast.

"Yes," said Peter. "Quite wonderful, if long."

"I'm glad to hear," Bridget said. "That can be such a bear of a flight, though I've got to say, much easier to cope with in first class."

"Absolutely," said Augusta.

"You can really stretch out, plus there's all that champagne," she said with a wink. "So I understand you two are moving in nearby?"

"Mm, yes," said Peter. "Just a few blocks away."

"Oh, that'll be fun," enthused Bridget, "having you so nearby."

"I agree, plus you both know London so well," Peter said. "I haven't lived here in years, and Augusta was raised in Hong Kong."

"Oh!" said Bridget. "If there's anything you need—the best coffee shops, pubs, clubs, shopping, whatever—don't hesitate to ask! I'd love to show you around town."

Augusta smiled, then looked briefly to Peter then back to Bridget. "That would be super," she said. "I don't really know anyone here."

"Wonderful! Just let me know when you're free," she said with a bright smile. "And Peter? What is it that you do for a living, anyway?"

Peter glanced to Mark, distinct surprise on his face; it was true that Mark had not talked much about his brother, and now he felt ashamed that Peter knew he hadn't. "Financial analyst, investment banking," he said, looking back to Bridget, "but I haven't yet landed a position in town."

Bridget grinned. "Oh, I have just the contact for you. What about you? Banking too?"

The last part was directed to Augusta, who blushed a little and smiled. "Oh, no. My family's in banking, though. That's how I met Peter."

"What do you do, then? For work?"

"I don't." She sipped her wine. "I decided not to go back after we got married."

"Oh!" said Bridget with a smile that Mark felt was probably in part forced; he knew how she felt about women giving up their careers after marriage, given everything he'd heard her say about her friend Magda. "Well, that just gives us more time to have some fun together." Mark swore that each smile Augusta gave to Bridget was warmer than the last.

Despite his sullen mood, Mark managed a grin. Whatever they thought about the living situation, Bridget herself would be able to win them over with the sheer force of her personality.

………

"So about not telling your parents."

In the privacy of their bedroom, Mark said this to Bridget, and was met with resounding silence.

"Mark," she said at last. "I figured what they didn't know couldn't hurt them. Besides. What business is it of theirs, anyway?"

"They are your parents, people on whose good side I strive to remain. I don't know how they feel about us living together, never mind finding out about it so long after the fact."

"Then why didn't you ask me about that before we moved in together?" she retorted.

"I figured you might have spoken up about it at the time if it were a big problem," he said. "I also figured you'd tell them as a matter of course. I thought your mum was eager for us to get together."

"She is, but…" 

"You should have told her," he said crossly. "It's patently outrageous that we've been living together for two months and you haven't shown your parents the respect—" 

"Mark." She furrowed her brow, set her jaw firm. "Would you prefer instead that I had followed the oh-so-respectful advice my mother saw fit to give me?"

"What advice?"

Bridget said, mimicking her mother perfectly, "'Make sure he keeps that thing just for weeing with.'"

At this Mark began to laugh at the absurdity of this 'advice'… until he realised that not only was she was deadly serious, but was threatening to follow it now. "Bridget," he said, reaching for her hand. "I know your mother is probably the most impossible woman in the world, but what if she hears from someone else? She'll be hurt. And your father even more."

She drew her lips tight. "I suppose you're right."

He pulled her close into a hug. "Promise me we'll tell them at the earliest opportunity."

"Yes, Mark," she said resignedly.

"After all," Mark said, planting a kiss into her hair, "our living together has been quite a success story."

He heard her chuckle. "Yeah," she said. "Thought I might have driven you mad by now."

"You have your moments," he teased, "but all in all, I very much approve of sharing a living space with you."

"There's still time," she teased back.

"What?"

"To follow Mum's advice."

………

"Mark, good, you're here."

Mark looked up from his desk to see Peter standing there with a small stack of papers in hand. "What can I do for you?" he asked, though he had a suspicion.

"Need to fax this, and am hoping you have a fax machine."

"Yes," he said with a grin. He stood, indicated with his hand where it was. He knew his brother was clever enough to know how to work it.

"Let me say again," Peter said as he punched the number, "how much we appreciate your hospitality, how grateful I am to Bridget for taking Augusta around, taking her shopping, introducing her to her friends… It's difficult for her to make friends, and I'm so glad they're getting on well. Just wanted you to know how fond I am of her already."

"I am very glad for that," said Mark, at his desk again, picking up his pen to write. Despite her cool demeanour, he was growing to like Augusta very much. "And you, again, are very welcome."

The fax having concluded, he picked up the originals and offered Mark a grin. "Excellent choice this time," said Peter. "Well. Have a meeting with Bridget's friend at Brightlings. Apparently they're looking for an analyst. Until later."

Mark was too stunned to say little more than to wish him luck as he left. Although he was sure Peter had not intended to hurt him, the comment had done just that. It felt like his brother could not leave well enough alone, and end it with a compliment; instead, as seemed to be habit, it was an insult instead.

It also served as a reminder that even though Peter might not have cared much about the notion of love or soul-mates, he had always been somewhat critical of Mark's girlfriends. It made him wonder when his real opinion of Bridget would surface, the criticisms, the cloaked insults…

"Mark."

He looked up. It was Bridget.

"Yes, sorry?"

"I've been calling for you for ten minutes. On which planet have you been?"

"Sorry," he said again, rising from behind his desk.

She drew her brows together. "What's wrong?"

"What makes you think something's wrong?"

She stared at him with a piercing look. "Calling for you for ten minutes, Mark."

He glanced down, fiddling with some papers. "Is Augusta here?"

"No, she had an appointment with the estate agent. Did Peter get his fax sent?"

Mark nodded. "He's gone to meet Jude."

"Great," she said. "So you're free to tell me what's wrong."

He looked back up to her. "My brother has a way of cutting me to the quick without trying."

She looked a little startled. "But he's so nice. Very kind and polite, and always says lovely things about you to me."

It surprised him to hear her say that. In response he said quickly, "Well, he would."

"Mark. Whatever he said, I'm sure he didn't mean it in a negative way," she said. "After all, you are not always so easy to interpret, either." She came up close to him with a tender smile, raising her hand to trace her fingers over his face. "I'm sure you don't see it… but he is so like you it's a bit scary."

He pursed his lips, raising his brow in disbelief. She burst out in a laugh.

"You have such similar mannerisms," she continued. "The eyebrow lift, the stern tone… you two are definitely more alike than not." She tipped her head to the side as she looked up to him, studying his features, cupping his cheek in her palm. "Why did you never talk about him? I'll be honest—I'd forgotten you had a brother. Usually when two people get together they talk about their families at least a little bit."

"You don't talk about your brother much."

"But I _do_ talk about him," she said. "The first I'd heard of Peter was when your mother mentioned his getting married."

He didn't answer right away; he was too busy putting his thoughts in order. "We weren't very close," he said at last. "I didn't feel like he cared much for me. That I was a disappointment and a failure. He was very competitive and overly critical of my choices. We drifted apart while he was in Hong Kong."

"What changed?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you seem to get on just fine now," she said.

He placed his hand atop hers. "Nothing's really changed, Bridget."

"Rubbish," she said. "Either he is obviously very fond of you, or he's a world-class actor on par with Olivier."

He pulled her into a hug, planting a kiss on the top of her head. He loved how she always tried to see the best in everyone. She did not know his brother like he did, though. Nothing really had changed.


	2. Chapter 2

At Bridget's insistence, they all went out to dinner that evening. He knew her motives, knew she wanted to observe the interaction between brothers, and honestly, he did not mind. He did not, after all, dislike his brother, and the evening was going fairly splendidly.

Until they ran into an old acquaintance.

"Mark! Bridget!"

It was Rebecca, long hair a glossy curtain, brightly false smile plastered in place as she air-kissed over Bridget's cheek.

"How _lovely_ to see the two of you still together," she said. "Must be wonderful for you, Bridget."

He saw Bridget fighting back a caustic comment of her own in reaction to what she had often referred to as jellyfishing.

Seemingly sensing the thin ice on which she had tread, Rebecca swung to face Peter and Augusta. "And oh, you can't be anyone but Mark's brother. Mark, _darling_ , you must introduce us."

With as much courtesy as he could muster—duly noting the steam rising off of Bridget's head—he introduced his brother and sister-in-law to Rebecca.

"They're just recently arrived from Hong Kong," Mark concluded.

"That explains why I never got to meet them sooner. So pleased to meet you," she said, extending her hand towards Augusta.

To Mark's surprise, she did not accept the handshake, just gave Rebecca an icy glare.

Peter then spoke up, surprising Mark doubly. "In our absence from England, I hadn't realised the rules of polite society had changed so much as to allow any woman on the street to be so crassly over-familiar with a man when his fiancée is sitting right next to him."

Mark had to admit it was a particularly good riposte that obviously zinged straight to her weakest spot; Rebecca blanched a little, stood upright, smiled in that completely forced way again, and excused herself.

"Who was that?" asked Peter, once she was gone.

"She used to be a friend of mine," said Bridget sheepishly between clenched teeth, glancing down.

Peter looked thoughtful, glancing from Mark to Bridget and back again. "Ah." He cut in to dinner. "Sorry for the white lie, by the way, but I didn't think you'd mind an exaggeration in the name of putting that tart in her place."

That made Bridget chuckle as she sipped on her wine, recovering from her embarrassment after that run-in with Rebecca. Under the table, he reached for Bridget's hand and squeezed it briefly. She turned to smile at him. He knew he'd been forgiven for the mistake he'd made while they were apart; it didn't mean he didn't like to remind her at any given moment that he recognised what a monumental mistake it'd been.

The rest of the evening continued undisturbed, and turned out to be a very nice time together. Mark knew, however, that he was bound to get a grilling from his brother over what had occurred at dinner. When Peter joined him in the study and closed the door behind him, he knew it would happen sooner than later.

"Mark," he said in a quiet tone. "Tell me who that _really_ was there at dinner."

Mark was not quite what sure what to say, and spent many moments composing his thoughts before he spoke. "Bridget is in many ways closer to her friends, her self-styled Urban Family, than she is to her real family. They know things about her long before her family does; she lives and breathes by their advice and approval, or at least she did much more so early in our relationship. Rebecca, while not strictly in that inner circle, was a friend of Bridget's, and was the only one who seemed to warm to me. None of the others accepted me." It embarrassed him to think how foolish and blind he had been. "Bridget tried to warn me."

"Warn you about what?"

"That Rebecca was doing everything in her power to split us up. She only seemed nice, friendly, trying to include me in things… I thought Bridget was being ridiculous and paranoid."

"Did you cheat on Bridget with that woman?"

"No," he said adamantly. "But I didn't see the manipulation she had been orchestrating until I found myself sharing a room with her at a weekend getaway long after we'd split. Didn't realise what an act it had all been."

Peter's eyes widened. "Did you sleep with her?"

He hated admitting that he had, but the truth was the truth, that he'd been so humiliated at not seeing what everyone else had seen that he'd been too weak to refuse her advances. 

He did not expect what happened next. "Mark!" he said, veritably exploding, interpreting the silence correctly. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I—"

"That's just it," interrupted Peter. "You weren't thinking, at least not with the head on your shoulders."

"No, no," he said, "I didn't even really fancy her—"

"And yet you _slept_ with her?"

Mark did not know what to say to that, so he said nothing. In hindsight he knew it had been stupid to sleep with her, particularly as he could only think of Bridget out in the old servants' quarters the whole night.

"So why, if you didn't fancy her?"

He thought back to that night, didn't honestly know what had kept him in that room instead of gracefully admitting a grave misapprehension on her part and leaving to prostrate himself at Bridget's feet. "It seemed only polite," he said in a quiet voice.

"Polite? Oh, Mark, that takes the cake. You should consider yourself a lucky man that she ever forgave you." Peter began pacing, not saying anything for many moments. "It pains me to think that you still weren't able to tell the difference between an honest, sensible girl like your Bridget, and someone like Rebecca, whose true nature both Augusta and I perceived in fewer than thirty seconds of acquaintance."

"Peter," he began, feeling blindsided that Peter would be so vehement in chastising him, especially since Mark would have thought Rebecca to be the sort of girl for him in Peter's eyes. "It isn't something I'm proud of."

At that Peter seemed to ease up on the criticism. "Yes," he said in a much gentler voice, his eyes softer and slightly more emotional. "I can see that."

A rapping at the door interrupted the conversation. "Mark? Are you in there?"

Mark chuckled; where else could he possibly be? "Yes, darling, come in."

Clad in her bunny-print pyjama bottoms and plain pale blue tank, her hair pulled up into a ponytail at the crown of her head, and her bunny slippers on her feet, she was clearly expecting Mark to be alone. At realising Peter was there she flushed a bright pink and folded her arms across her chest in a futile effort to hide her attire. "Oh, hi," she said to Peter.

"Hi," he said, clearly amused.

Addressing Mark again, she said, "I was just getting ready for bed and wanted to see if you were going to join me."

"Give me a few minutes. I'll be right up."

"Okay." She looked back to Peter. "I thought you were already in your room in bed. But, well, since you're not…" She went to him, went up onto her toes, and kissed him goodnight on the cheek. "Night."

Peter smiled down at her and said, "Sweet dreams."

With a obviously delighted grin, she left. 

That his brother seemed pleased by this show of affection was surprising to Mark, who could only wonder again when the other shoe would figuratively drop. Peter seemed to pick up on the surprise, though, and grinned. He said, "You know, Mark, it would be nice not to have to lie."

"Lie?"

He looked at Mark as if he were daft. "Good night, Mark."

He wondered if Bridget realised he was as distracted as he was as he prepared to go to sleep, as he crawled into bed, and took her into his arms. It was much later that it finally occurred to him to what Peter must have been referring:

The white lie he'd told to Rebecca at dinner.

……… 

Since Peter and Augusta had come to stay a week prior, it was a rare night that Mark and Bridget had supper alone at home. That evening found the two of them on their own, and with a grin Mark popped open a bottle of red wine.

"As much as I love my brother," said Mark, "I'm glad for a respite."

Bridget chuckled.

"And you," said Mark, pouring her a glass, "you're a real trouper."

"Why do you say that?" she asked.

"You've been so nice to Augusta," said Mark.

She stared at him as if he'd suddenly burst out into show tunes. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I know my brother," said Mark. "I know the kind of woman that attracts him. I truly appreciate your putting up with it."

She began to laugh in a slightly alarming way. "Mark," she said. "I'm sorry to laugh, but that's the most ridiculous thing I've heard in some time."

"Bridget, it's all right," he said. "If you're not comfortable with her, you don't have to say you are for the sake of family harmony."

Her mouth dropped open in disbelief. " _What?_ "

"Well, you always like to see the good in everyone."

"I'm trying really hard to take that as the compliment it is," she said, "but it's hard when you think I could be so fake—"

"I don't. I'm only going by what I know of my brother," he said, "and a reasonable understanding of your personality."

At this Bridget only stared at him again, silent for many moments before speaking. "You really haven't spent much time with her, have you? Why else would you say that?"

He drew his brows together. "She's a little… well… distant. A very cool personality, aloof and remote, but very polite."

Bridget laughed again. "She's _shy_ , Mark. Once you get to know her she's quite personable and easy to talk to."

Mark scoffed.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I know what kind of marriage my brother has been looking for all of his life," Mark said. "I have seen no evidence that tells me he hasn't found it."

She narrowed her eyes. "What sort of marriage do you think he has, exactly?" she queried, incredulous.

"He's not an emotional person. He would want someone as competitive as he is," he said. "Someone who meets his standards, has the right pedigree, and can keep up with him. And that he can tolerate being around."

She said nothing in response before sighing and turning away.

"Bridget?" he asked.

"You're impossible," she said, shaking her head, walking towards the table with dinner. "And you need to spend more time with your sister-in-law."

He didn't quite know what to say to that; he'd spent plenty of time with Augusta. As they sat to partake in dinner, he said at last, rather futilely and in a slightly petulant tone, "I am not impossible."

"Okay," she conceded. "Not impossible. Thick as a brick, maybe, but not impossible."

………

After getting word that the car they'd purchased just after they'd arrived in London was ready to be picked up from the dealership, Peter asked Mark to accompany him in order to drive the car he'd borrowed from their father. They decided to make an afternoon of it, returning Malcolm's car to him, having some tea with their mother before driving back to London.

The conversation with Peter during the drive back to London was pleasant but did not veer into any potentially difficult subjects. They spoke of their parents and other relatives; Peter told him all about the job he'd secured with Brightlings Bank; told him in excruciating detail all about moving and purchasing the new house, which made Mark vow never to move again.

They did not discuss Bridget, Augusta, or the respective relationships therein.

In entering the house, Mark had to wonder at first if the women were home. Upon closer inspection, though, he realised he was hearing music playing. Familiar music.

"Sounds like the girls are watching something," said Peter, striding towards the front room, where the television was.

"For the love of God," said Mark jokingly, "do not go in there."

"What?" he asked. "Why not?" Peter disappeared into the front room. Mark got closer to listen to the expected scolding. "So did the two of you have a nice—"

"Shh!" came Augusta's voice loudly and, to Mark's surprise, rather hysterically. "Are you mad? Mr Darcy is just about to propose again!"

Mark tried not to laugh as Peter emerged from the front room looking somewhat shell-shocked.

"I did try to warn you," said Mark, chuckling. "Never interrupt a woman watching that."

"I can deduce what they're watching, but…" he trailed off.

"Every woman in England over the age of thirteen has seen it—has to have seen it—and your wife cannot be excepted. The fervour with which they watch is almost a religion with Bridget and her friends," said Mark, "and I believe your wife herself is being indoctrinated."

The women appeared shortly thereafter, both smiling in a very swoony way. "I can see why you like that so much," said Augusta. "Excellent production."

"I can't _believe_ you never saw it," said Bridget in reply.

"I'd ask what you've been up to," said Mark, "but it seems all too obvious to me."

Bridget smirked. "It seemed only right and proper," she said. "An injustice that had to be resolved." 

"Indeed," Mark said. "Welcome to the cult, Augusta. Peter, if your wife asks you to take a bath with your shirt on, just say no."

Bridget punched him playfully on the arm, then said, "We were talking before, and Augusta had a marvellous idea for dinner."

"Yes," Augusta said. "A particularly favourite dish of mine from home, _cha siu baau_."

"Pork buns," added Bridget, then looked at Mark. "What do you think?"

"I think it sounds fantastic."

"I think you'll be pleasantly surprised," said Peter with a smile. "It's one of her best dishes."

"Before the mini, we popped to the market and got some pork to get it roasting," said Bridget.

"It's probably almost done," said Augusta. "Time to put the rest of it together."

It turned out that the kitchen was missing some very crucial ingredients for the sauce into which the pork was to be mixed. Peter offered to go if someone could direct him to the nearest Asian market. Bridget offered to go with him so that Augusta could carry on making the dough for the buns. Augusta made up a list for them; Peter was well familiar with the ingredients needed. Within a few short moments the two of them were off.

Augusta asked Mark to pull down the ingredients for the bread. She had it all mixed up and kneaded and set it to rise while Mark diced up the pork roast.

"I think you'll like the bun dough," said Augusta, washing her hands. "I've heard all about how much you love fresh bread."

Mark laughed. "Yes, it's true, though I think Bridget likes to exaggerate that as an excuse to buy more bread."

"Oh, no," she said. "I mean when you and Peter were boys. Elaine's homemade bread."

Mark was taken aback. The only person who could have told her was Peter.

She chuckled, continuing: "Heard all about your bad experience with a particularly hot curry, too… but that apparently hasn't kept you from liking your food spicy."

She was referring to an incident in an Indian restaurant in London just after Mark's graduation from Cambridge, where Mark should have believed the menu when it called the dish 'Fire Fire Fire'; again, only Peter and himself were there.

"Mark?"

He looked to her again.

"Why do you look so surprised?"

"Peter talks to you about me?"

She chuckled. "Of course he talks about you. He talks about you a lot, and always has."

"That does surprise me," said Mark, dicing the last of the pork. "What else does he talk about?"

"How competitive you were as boys," she said. "The football, the chess… how it made both of you better men. And your work, of course. The Indonesians, the Mexicans… there's no case of yours that he doesn't follow. He's so proud of what you do."

He realised a few moments later that he had stopped all movement, had not blinked, when Augusta furrowed her brows and asked him if he was all right.

"I'm fine," Mark answered, feeling guilty for never having spoken to Bridget about Peter. "I just didn't think he… well, suffice to say, I'm glad to have gotten the opportunity to get to know Peter again."

"Again?"

Mark chuckled sheepishly. "There was a time when we weren't really speaking. It wasn't one thing, no single discussion that set us drifting apart. It just happened. It's not even that I was angry at him, or that he was angry at me."

Astutely, Augusta remarked, "It's not always easy to know what Peter's thinking, when he approves or disapproves of something. He's gotten better, though, in the time I've known him."

Mark did not know what to say in response; he had always thought his brother hard to read too, and similarly kept his own emotions in check so as not to seem weak. He was saved from having to reply, however, by Bridget and Peter's return.

"We come bearing _shaoxing_ wine, oyster sauce and everything else we need," chirped Bridget, bearing a small carrier bag and a bright smile. Peter was close behind with a larger, heavier bag and an equally wide smile.

"Perfect timing," said Augusta. "Need to make the sauce."

The other ingredients had already been previously assembled, and with this addition Augusta mixed together the spicy barbeque sauce, which Bridget watched with starry-eyed fascination, almost admiration. Mark could not, however, get their conversation out of his head; rather, the implications of the conversation, that Peter had not felt the same sense of estrangement he had, that he'd spoken fondly of their childhood and of Mark, and followed his work with a favourable eye.

The _baau_ , baked rather than steamed, were delicious, and were served with the remainder of the _shaoxing_ wine. It was a really great evening all around. They played a few games of cards, and drank a bit too much of the wine; Bridget insisted on ice cream for dessert.

"I'll have chocolate, if you'll be a dear," she said, tilting her head in an exaggerated fashion and batting her eyelashes at him. He chuckled. 

"Well, I'm not sure," he said. "I spent _minutes_ on my feet chopping up pork while you got to go to the Asian market. Maybe you ought to fetch it for us."

"No, no," said Bridget, swooning dramatically with the back of her hand pressed to her forehead. "I insist. The market was a nightmare. I still need time to recover."

"If it's too much trouble, _I_ could get it," said Peter, the politeness of his tone revealing his irritation.

"Oh, no," said Mark, getting to his feet. "We're only teasing. I'll get it. We have chocolate and vanilla. What'll it be?"

After two votes for chocolate and one for vanilla—he would take a little of each—he went to the freezer and pulled out the canisters. As he scooped out all four servings, he could only ponder Peter's concern. After a week and a half of staying at their home, could he really believe they were seriously having a squabble over ice cream?

After returning to the sitting room and doling out bowls and spoons, he took his seat again. Not unexpectedly, Bridget sidled up to him, dipping her spoon liberally into the chocolate half of his bowl of ice cream between spoonfuls from her own. He would never admit it to her, but it was the only reason he ever took any chocolate at all. All was apparently as well and as comfortable as it had been all night. Mark, though, felt uneasy and unsettled.

………

Breakfast was another opportunity for alone time; Mark had to be up a lot earlier than his brother and sister-in-law did, and Bridget had taken to joining him since Peter and Augusta had come to stay. This morning, though, Bridget seemed to be feeling particularly playful. She set her coffee down, plucked his newspaper from his hands, and straddled his lap, running her fingers back through his hair, smiling in a smug sort of way, apparently studying his face.

"What's this?"

"It's me wanting a morning snog," she informed him, tracing a finger over his brow and cheek, then teasing him with light kisses to his lips and the corner of his mouth.

"I have to go to work," he said, not particularly convincingly.

"I know." She chuckled throatily, teasing him with the very tip of her tongue. "Just a snog."

"Mmm, well, if it's just a snog, then—"

With that she began to kiss him quite passionately; he returned every kiss with equal passion. His hands stroked up her back then down again, traversing the waistband of her pyjama bottoms to grasp her backside and pull her to him.

"Naughty," she whispered breathily. "Don't write cheques you can't cash, mister."

It was his turn to chuckle as he kissed her again.

The moment was shattered by the softest, quietest, most timid throat-clearing Mark had ever heard. Mark broke away from the kiss, and to his horror found his brother standing there in the doorway behind Bridget. He was fully dressed in a suit and ready to leave the house. Slowly Mark slipped his hands out of her pyjamas, though he knew his brother had already seen.

"Good, er, morning," Peter said stoically.

Bridget had flushed bright red, and covered her face with her hand, muttering an 'Oh God' into his ear.

"Um," said Mark. "Good morning."

"I guess I neglected to mention I start at Brightlings this morning, didn't I?" he asked. Mark would swear Peter was fighting a laugh, yet the last thing in the world Peter would have thought was that this was in any way amusing.

"I guess," said Mark.

"Just wanted a little coffee," he said.

Bridget's muffled voice came from next to his ear. "There's some in the pot."

"Thank you."

He poured a cup, then headed out of the kitchen.

After a moment, Bridget asked, "Is he gone?"

"Yes," said Mark. "But you do realise he could still see you despite your hiding your face."

"Oh, hush," she said.

"And this was entirely your fault."

" _My_ fault, Mr Put-Your-Hands-Down-My-Bottoms?" she asked, but she was smiling, then began laughing as she traced a finger over his brow again. "Well, surely he realises that we kiss. Have sex. Et cetera."

"Well, yes," said Mark, "but the kitchen's not the expected venue."

She raised a brow. "That hasn't stopped you before." Gingerly she then rose from his lap, kissing him briefly on the lips, cupping his face in her hand. "Have a nice day at work."

As she strode out of the kitchen with her coffee in hand, he could not keep his eyes off of where his hands had most recently been.

………

The following Sunday, the four of them got into Peter's new car for a jaunt out to the Darcys' for brunch. They had not all yet been there for a visit together, and when Mark suggested it, their mother was elated at the prospect.

Upon their arrival, Mark discovered another couple had also been invited: Bridget's parents. Mark greeted them as he always had, though his thoughts were in overdrive trying to think of a way to let them know about the change in living situation. It was not something Bridget or Mark had wanted to do by phone, so they hadn't, and they hadn't a chance to see her parents face to face until this moment.

As they made their way to the dining room, he pulled Bridget aside. "Darling," he said, "we need to tell them."

He did not need to elaborate further to her, with the way she began to wring her hands. "I know," she said. "I didn't expect to be blindsided today."

"It will be all right," he said. "We can do it together. Strength in numbers. Besides, it's not like we're telling them you've borne us twins and didn't think to mention it."

She chuckled; she knew as well as he did the levels of denial her mother was in about the fact they had a sex life. "True."

Further discussion was halted by the sound of an hysterical screech from the room they were approaching.

"'Together'? What do you mean, 'together'?"

When they arrived to where lunch would be served—and to where, Mark was convinced, a murder would soon occur—he saw that Pam Jones was staring to the pair of them with narrowed eyes. "Peter says you're living at Mark's house, Bridget. That you're moved in. Is this true?"

Mark looked to Bridget, who was intently studying the floor at her feet. He decided to bear the brunt of Pam's anger himself. "Yes, Mrs Jones. It's true."

"For how long?" she asked. 

"Since…" He glanced to Bridget. "Since we returned from Thailand."

" _What?!_ " she exploded, balled fists on her hips. "But that… June… more than two months ago!"

"I'm sorry," Mark said. "I did not until recently know that—"

"Bridget!" Pam shrieked, turning her fury on her daughter. "What are you thinking? Is this the way I raised you? You—"

"Pamela," interrupted Colin, stopping her rant in its tracks, "it's not 1950. Let it go." He walked forward and patted Mark's shoulder. "Things are going well?"

"Very," he said, slightly stunned. Pam still looked rather disgruntled and as if she wished she could will Mark dead.

"Glad to hear." Colin smiled. "Well. Lunch awaits."

As they circled around to find their seats at the table, Peter came up to him, visibly disconcerted. "I am so sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't realise they still didn't know. I never would have said a thing."

"Well, cat's out of the bag now," said Mark, wishing his brother had erred on the side of caution, but grateful and relieved all the same that they now knew. "It'll be fine."

As Peter continued on, Mark realised he was not upset so much as coolly angry. "If you'd kept your word, I never would have been put in this awkward position."

"I'm sorry," said Mark, startled. "We haven't seen her parents since—"

"I assumed you know how to work a telephone, Mark."

The sharpness of the comment left Mark without a reply; Peter then turned away to take his seat by his wife, apologising again for inadvertently raising such a fuss at what was to be a pleasant brunch. In short order the heavy atmosphere lifted; Pam seemed to have forgotten all about her upset in hearing Peter regale them with tales of the new house they'd be moving into within the week. Mark did not participate much in conversation, and he sensed that Bridget knew his discomfort even if she didn't know precisely why, placing a reassuring hand on his knee, which he quickly covered with his own hand to squeeze her fingers in a show of appreciation.

After the meal, with the drive back to London ahead of them, the four of them began to say their goodbyes. Pam was still a bit on the standoffish side, but did not neglect to hug and kiss Mark on the cheek goodbye. The drive itself was by no means in silence, though Mark again said very little. While Peter was his usual self and did not seem to harbour further anger towards Mark or Bridget, Mark still felt quite stung by his brother's words, as if he and Bridget had purposely not said anything so to set him up for embarrassment. Bridget held his hand, occasionally squeezing to remind him she was there for him, for which he was grateful, more than he could say.

After arriving home, Mark went straight for the bedroom, for a little quiet and privacy. Bridget followed him in, and it was only then he could share with her what had upset him so, but only after no small amount of coaxing on her part.

"I'm sure he's not still angry," said Bridget, her arm around his shoulders as they sat on the bed, her temple against his cheek, her fingers combing through his hair as a show of comfort.

"Oh, I'm sure he's not," said Mark. "He said his piece and now he's moved on now that he's let me know in no uncertain terms that I've disappointed him… well, Bridget, some things just don't change."

"I'm sure you've got it all wrong," said Bridget gently. "He was embarrassed, and he lashed out unfairly. I'm sure he will apologise."

"I wish I were as sure," said Mark, considering that technically, Peter was right.

………

As the evening drew on, Mark began to feel himself again, and supper turned out to be perfectly pleasant; he and Peter discussed the schedule by which they'd be moving into their house, while the women went off outside for some air. Mark suspected Bridget wanted to sneak a fag. By the time they all retired for bed, Mark was able to sleep well enough, reassured that his brother did not in fact harbour any lasting hostility towards him for the faux pas.

Mark decided to work at home the next morning. He was surprised when there was a knock on his door at about ten, because as far as he knew, no one else was home. "Yes, come in."

It was Peter. "Have you a moment?"

"Of course, come in."

Peter shut the door behind himself, almost looked a little hesitant. "I wanted to talk to you about yesterday."

Mark felt his stomach drop, suddenly sure he was in for another round of censure. "Okay."

"It would seem that the women in our lives do the communicating that perhaps we should be doing ourselves."

Mark drew his brows together. "I don't understand."

"Bridget and Augusta. Bridget told her how she was worried at how upset you were. She then confided in me." He paused. "Mark, I did not realise how much I… I hurt you with my comment yesterday. I should have held my tongue until I was not feeling quite so exposed. I am sorry."

Mark could not have been more stunned had his brother announced he was leaving Augusta to marry the Queen herself. For his brother to admit a mistake, to apologise in such a fashion, was pretty much unheard of. "It's all right," said Mark. "I just did not want to have that conversation with her parents over the telephone."

Peter nodded. "You're right, of course. I should not have assumed."

Mark was doubly stunned. "Well, as they say," said Mark, "'All's well that ends well.'"

Peter smiled. "Now for the second reason I've come to see you."

"Oh?"

"Yes," he said. "I need an envel—"

Just then, Mark's mobile rang. It was a client whose case he had just taken, and whom he had been having a devil of a time reaching. "I have to take this." He rose with the phone in his hand, finger poised over the Talk button. "Upper left drawer. Please take what you need." Peter nodded.

The conversation was brief but productive, and when he ended the call, he realised his brother was still there, serious expression on his face, envelope and postage in one hand… and a small velvet box in the other.

"Mark?" he asked. "What's this?"

It was obvious from Peter's tone that he knew full well what 'this' was. Mark pulled his lips tight.

"How long have you had it?"

Mark glanced down. "Two months."

"Mark," he said, his tone scolding. Mark was suddenly sure Peter thought a union with Bridget was a big mistake, despite claiming to like her. He thought the truth of Peter's feelings was about to come out.

Mark would be surprised yet again.

"What the bloody hell are you waiting for?"

"What?" Mark asked, rather stupidly.

"To give this to her!" he expounded, smiling at last. "Are you waiting for an engraved invitation from God Himself? Or were you just going to keep it in your office for the rest of your days?"

Mark slowly came to his senses. Peter was urging him to propose. It still didn't mean the other shoe wasn't poised to drop; after all, it wasn't proper to live together before marriage, so it was all too proper to rectify the situation as soon as possible.

"I had to keep it in here so she wouldn't find it," he said, his tone flat in his continued shock.

"Mark," he said again, exasperatedly. "Why haven't you asked her?"

"Because I'm afraid she'll say no."

Peter chuckled. "Oh, Mark. How like you. Afraid of rejection."

"Peter—" he began.

"Mark," he interrupted. "Tonight I'm taking Augusta out to dinner. If I don't come back here and find that ring on Bridget's finger, I'm going to get the ring and ask her for you myself." He wondered about his own expression, uncharacteristically emotional perhaps, because Peter came over to where Mark stood and, setting down the things he'd been holding, he took his brother by the shoulders. "That girl _loves_ you. Don't be stupid. She is not going to say no."

He thought back to his mother's advice, how he had to be brave and just tell her how he felt—and he realised she'd been right, because that had turned out so well for them. Mark found himself nodding. "I just need to be brave," he murmured.

"That's the spirit," said Peter, releasing his shoulders, then offering him a wink. "And we could have a combination housewarming and engagement party."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Steamed (or baked) pork buns](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cha_siu_baau)! I ate my fill of these weekend before last… ironically, weeks after I'd written this section.


	3. Chapter 3

"So where are Peter and Augusta?"

Mark had been so focused on tending to supper, so lost in his own thoughts, that he did not hear her come into the house and into the kitchen. The sound of her voice startled him, and he jumped, dropping the spoon with which he had been stirring the tomato sauce.

She began to laugh. "Didn't mean to scare you," she said. "Bit of a Nervous Nelly, you are."

"They've gone out," he said, answering her question. "He wanted to take her out for dinner."

"Sweet," she said, coming up behind him and threading her arms around his waist, pressing herself into his back. "And you're cooking for me. Double sweet."

He chuckled, then coughed, thankful that the box resided in his jacket pocket, which hung over the back of his chair.

"Mark." She backed away from him. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes," he said quickly, looking at her. "Fine."

"I swear you're trembling," she said. "What's wrong?"

"I'm afraid I'm going to burn dinner with you distracting me," he said. She blinked in surprise; his tone was probably harsher than he had intended. "Sorry," he added. "Have a seat at the table. This is just about done. I'll bring it in."

"Okay," she said, her brow furrowed, then did as he asked.

Within a few minutes the pasta timer went off. He brought the pasta and the sauce to the table, served some for each of them, poured their wine, then slipped back into the jacket.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Putting my jacket on."

"To eat at home?"

"I want to look nice."

She smiled, though looked slightly confused; in retrospect, it was probably an odd thing for him to say from her perspective. "You do look nice. It's just… what if you get sauce on you?"

He sat down. "I'll be careful."

"No need to frown," she said. "If you want to eat with your jacket on, you can."

He cleared his throat. "Sorry."

She reached into the bowl of freshly grated parmesan and sprinkled some on her dinner. She began to eat, as did he, and within moments dropped a strand of tomato-laden spaghetti on his lapel. She pursed her lips at regarded him with a distinct 'I told you so' look.

"Take off your jacket," she said. "I'll clean it."

"No," he said, thinking of the box in the front pocket. "I'll take it to the cleaners in the morning."

"Don't be silly," she said. "The stain will set."

"Bridget," he insisted firmly, wondering where this Pam-like domestic stain removal concern had suddenly come from. "Don't worry about it."

She set her fork down on the table with a loud smack. "Mark Darcy," she said. "If you don't tell me what's going on, I _swear_ I'm going to go upstairs, unfold all your boxers and toss them all over the bedroom floor."

This was not going at all as he planned. He set his own fork down, his heart thumping like mad in his chest, and he sighed. "You're right, Bridget," he said. "Something is wrong."

He watched the colour drain from her face.

"There's a reason I can't concentrate," he said. "Why I'm jumpy and on edge tonight. I think— _hope_ —you might know why."

She brought her hands to cover her suddenly gaping mouth. "Oh my God," she said. "You're dying."

"What? _No_ ," he said quickly. He got to his feet, and in one swift move, plunged his hand into the jacket pocket holding the box and crouched beside where she was sitting. "Why would you think I was dying?"

"You don't like giving bad news."

"What makes you think it's _bad_ news?"

"Because—" She stopped suddenly. "It's not bad news? Are we just going on another trip to somewhere that isn't LA?"

"Bridget," he said, pulling the box up, still out of her sight, and flicking it open with his thumb. At this point he swore that sweat was beading on his forehead as he lowered one knee to the ground. "I wanted to—I hoped you would—would you do me the honour—Oh, _hell_." He forcefully inhaled then exhaled, and with a final show of courage, held the open box up to her. "Marry me. _Please_."

"Oh my God," she said again, this time breathily, her eyes fixed on the beautiful diamond ring surrounded by dark blue velvet. He felt dizzy. She met his eyes again after what felt like hours, almost as if surprised he were there. Her hands went to cover her mouth once more, but just at the outer corners of her eyes he could see the distinct evidence of a smile, could see her eyes were becoming misty with tears. She sobbed, then chuckled through her tears… then nodded. "Yes," she answered at last, grinning at him, launching forward off of her chair to embrace him—

And sending the two of them tumbling onto the floor.

Upon hitting the floor, they were both thankfully laughing. It was not what he had in mind, it was true, but he should have guessed proposing to Bridget would be anything but ordinary.

They sat up; he reached for the jewellery box, plucked the ring from its secure holding, and slipped it onto the fourth finger of her left hand. She climbed to sit on his lap, facing him with her legs about his waist, then placed her hands on his face and kissed him soundly.

"Did you think I would say no?" she asked close to his ear as she embraced him again.

"I thought maybe you might not want to get married. You don't seem to care much for married people."

She chuckled. "My poor Mark," she said, running her fingers through his hair. "It'll be different with you. I'll have every right to be smug."

Smiling, he helped lift her to her feet; as he rose he saw her swoon, then brought her hand up to her temple. Only then did he wonder if she perhaps had hit her head as they landed. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said with a smile. "Little whack on the head."

He took her face in his hands, looked deep into her eyes, and swore one pupil was more dilated than the other. "Come on," he said. "We're taking a trip."

"What are you talking about?"

"You hit your head," he said. "I'm not risking letting a concussion go undiagnosed."

She knew he meant Accident & Emergency. "Mark! What about your fantastic dinner? I'm starving."

"Sorry, love," he said. "It'll keep until we return."

"Oh, come on!"

"One of the side-effects of a concussion is nausea," he said. "If you get sick…"

She rolled her eyes. "Fine."

After an unfortunate two hour wait in Accident and Emergency, it turned out she did not in fact have a concussion, and as a treat he stopped on the way home and picked up a container of ice cream for after dinner. He would have thought the engagement would have negated the pout on her face; he chalked it up to being hungry.

As Mark swung the door open upon their return, he was met by a distraught-looking Peter and Augusta, who appeared so suddenly from wherever they'd been that it seemed as if they had materialised out of thin air.

"Where have you been?" asked Peter sternly, brows together.

"We have been worried out of our minds!" said his wife.

"I'm sorry," said Mark. "Everything's fine."

"Mark was convinced I had a concussion," she said. "Didn't hit my head hard at all, but he insisted."

"Quite right," said Peter.

"Better safe than sorry," said Augusta. "I'm just glad you're okay."

"I'm not okay," Bridget said, pout still in place. "I haven't had supper yet."

Mark slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her in the direction of the kitchen. "Yes. There is a wrong to be made right."

As she resumed her place at the table, Mark retrieved her plate from the refrigerator and put it into the microwave. The pasta seemed to have soaked up a little sauce but still looked and smelled delicious, and when he brought it to her, she dug into it greedily.

"Mm, oh," she said, her mouth a little too full to talk properly; after finishing chewing and swallowing, she said, "Oh! By the way, we're engaged!"

Augusta's eyes immediately flew to Bridget's bare left hand. "But—"

"Oh, right, sorry." Bridget leaned to the side and held her left hand out while he dug into his trouser pockets. With a chuckle, Mark then slipped the ring back into place. "Mark held on to it for safe keeping while they examined me. Haven't gotten used to it being there yet." She smiled at last as she admired the ring on her hand, then offered that same genuine smile to Peter and Augusta. He knew she was waiting for their approval.

Mark turned his own gaze their way, and was happy to see without words she had gained it. It was clear from the way they were both smiling proudly that Peter had informed his wife of his ultimatum, one that Mark was now thankful he'd threatened.

"Well done," said Peter, as his wife offered her congratulations to Bridget in the form of an embrace. Peter went around to Mark, who expected a firm handshake, but instead got a brotherly hug. Peter added, "Please tell me the proposal happened before the trip to hospital."

Bridget giggled as she stood to accept a hug from Peter. "The injury was in fact proposal-related."

Peter patted her head gingerly. "What, did Mark have to hit you over the head to accept?"

At that she laughed as she took her seat again.

"No," said Mark; "she just sent me head over heels in accepting."

"A night to remember, for sure," said Augusta as she embraced Mark. "Well done, indeed."

"Sit down, Mark," said Peter. "Let me get your own dinner… and a little something special to go with it."

Mark was confused, but agreed as he watched Peter and Augusta go towards the refrigerator.

He felt her fingers touch where his hand rested on the table, and he turned back to look at her; she looked as happy as he had ever seen her. He smiled in automatic reflex, turning his hand over and lacing his fingers with hers.

"I'm so glad they approve," said Bridget quietly.

Mark could not help but feel slight apprehension at her saying so; he fully expected a private consultation with his brother about all the caveats in place for his approval, hounding him to get working on the prenup as soon as possible, and maybe even suggestions with a social advisor to get Bridget nice and polished up. He did not say so, only said, "Me too," then raised her hand to brush a kiss on her knuckles.

A loud pop echoed through the kitchen; both Mark and Bridget turned quickly to see foam erupting from the top of a bottle of fizzing wine. Mark laughed in his utter surprise. "Where on earth did that come from?"

"We had a feeling you'd be successful tonight," said Augusta with a wink. Peter had located champagne flutes and poured four of them to the top with champagne. He carried two back to the table, and Augusta brought the other two, then was kind enough to fetch Mark's plate of food.

Once they all had flutes in hand, Peter lifted his above the others. "To family," he said with a broad grin.

"Hear, hear!" said Augusta, clinking her glass with Bridget's, who giggled. After a full round of touching glasses, Bridget tipped her glass up and took in the whole flute in almost one swallow, then held the flute out towards Peter for more.

"Careful," said Mark.

"It'll go to your head," added Peter. 

"I'm a newly minted engaged woman," she said with a grin. "Everything's going to my head right now. So fill it up."

"No," said Peter with a laugh. "It's already gone to your head."

"Has not," she said. "I'm just like this when I'm deliriously happy." She cleared her throat and tapped the side of the glass with her fingernail.

"That settles it," said Peter, lowering his glass from his lips, then pouring her another. "I will never have a moment's peace the rest of my life." As Bridget stuck out her tongue at Peter in response, Mark's happy mood deflated instantly. The tone was jovial enough, but the words were close to how Peter must have felt deep down. Rather than contribute to the conversation, he merely sipped his own champagne.

"How about you, Mark?" asked Augusta. "Fancy another?"

"Um, no, no thanks," he said, setting his glass down. 

"I insist," Peter said. "It's a time for celebration."

"No, really," said Mark, looking down to his full plate. "Not on an empty stomach." He reached for the fork, even though he had quite lost his appetite.

"Then eat," said Peter.

"Nah. More for me," said Bridget impishly with a saucy smile, tipping her flute up again to sip.

………

"Oof."

She had said this several times since getting to her feet, and now it was in mid-ascent up the stairs that she said it again, followed by a giggle. He had his arm around her waist, and he did not mind at all that she leaned in to him for support.

"How many glasses did you have? Four? Five?"

She made a dismissive sound with her lips. "The bottle wasn't that big."

"There was more than one bottle."

"Was there?"

They reached the top, then made their way to the bedroom. "Mm-hm."

"Oh." She was silent. "I'm not really sure. I lost count."

He chuckled. He'd had two in total himself; as he'd eaten he'd felt his good spirits return. "Not that I like to encourage this sort of thing," he said, "but you're adorable when you're like this."

"On top of the world with a beautiful ring on my finger?"

"No," he said. "Well, yes, that too, but I meant the fact that you're squiffy."

She giggled again, reaching for and unsteadily undoing his trouser button. Her drunken friskiness was surfacing. He had to admit that his was as well. She teased him with a kiss, saying, "Am the happiest girl in the world… love your lovely family… your brother… and especially do I love you."

He was too swept up in thoughts of celebratory lovemaking with her to think twice about how she was destined for disappointment when Peter's true feelings came to light. That only happened later, after the contentment of coital bliss washed away and left him in the darkness with these dismal thoughts.

He thought back to his early to mid-twenties, when he and his brother were both living and working in London and had much closer social contact. There wasn't a girl he'd taken out with which Peter, after initially treating them nicely, hadn't found some fault, usually relating to her not being Mark's equal in either socio-economic status or moral attitude. Although those relationships ultimately did not last, he hated that his brother seemed to understand much more quickly than he did that they'd been wrong for him, hated that he had always been right.

He loved Bridget, and he was prepared to fight for her. Even against his own brother.

………

"I don't think that woman can do anything right."

It was a private conversation, one between husband and wife, and had Mark not been passing by the guest bedroom at that moment he would not have heard it.

But he had.

"She's really trying," said Augusta in a conciliatory tone, "but I must admit I'll be glad to be rid of her once and for all."

"She can't do anything right," he said again. "If there's anyone more inept—"

"Shh," Augusta said. "Keep your voice down. I think they're still sleeping."

"Sorry." Mark heard Peter sigh. "I think trying to stay pleasant through this whole ordeal is taking its toll on me."

"It'll be over soon," she said in return. "But for now, we need to stay civil." Her voice came nearer to the door and Mark moved away quickly and down the stairs, continuing down to the kitchen to start some coffee brewing.

Sometimes Mark hated being right. He was not surprised that Peter felt so vehemently against her after all, but he really dreaded Bridget finding out that the friendship forged with Augusta had been fraudulent.

"Morning," said Peter, coming down into the kitchen, startling Mark from his thoughts. "I thought you were still asleep."

"No," he said, rising from his seat, realising the coffee had finished brewing. "Coffee?"

"Yes, thanks." Mark heard the newspaper rustle behind him. "Mark? Everything okay?"

"Yes, fine," said Mark quickly. "Not sure I slept so well."

"Sorry to hear that." Mark brought a mug of black coffee and set it down in front of his brother. "Listen, Mark," he began; his tone was quiet and very serious. "I need to speak to you in private, and now's as good a time as any."

Mark knew this was it. The hammer was about to drop. Peter was going to share his opinion, his true opinion, about his choice in fiancée. "What's the matter?"

"I wanted to let you know that I—we—are very grateful for your taking us in. However—"

"Good morning!"

It was Bridget, far more bright-eyed and bushy-tailed than usual in the morning as she strolled into the kitchen. "Good morning to you," she said, bending to peck Peter on the cheek, "and a _very_ good morning to you." She snaked her arms around Mark's neck and gave him a tender kiss.

"I would have thought you'd have a killer headache after all of that champagne," mused Peter.

"Love has conquered all," she declared. "Even hangovers."

"So what trouble are you planning on getting my wife into today?" he asked.

"Mm, thought maybe we'd go get our colours done," she said. "I resisted when my mum made an appointment for me, but it's actually rather a lot of fun."

"Go get your… _what_?"

Bridget chuckled; inside, Mark winced. "It's a girl thing."

"Peter," Mark said abruptly. "There was something you wanted to talk to me about…?"

"Later, Mark. Later. I have to get going. Another bloody meeting with the estate agent to pick up some more paperwork." He picked up the coffee cup and drained it. "Thanks for the coffee. Delicious." He rose and left the kitchen.

"You okay?" It was Bridget asking the question from where she was pouring herself her own cup. "You don't seem quite yourself."

"I'm fine," he said, then added, "tossed and turned a bit."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, then playfully added, "but if you're having second thoughts, it's too late. You're stuck with me."

At that he chuckled, then went to give her a hug and kiss. "Not a chance."

………

"You will _never_ believe what that little brat did now."

Mark glanced up from behind his desk to find Peter standing there at his office door; he looked slightly pale, his eyes round as if in shock. He came in and closed the door behind him. Mark realised that the talk he'd wanted to have earlier was about to happen whether he wanted it to or not.

Mark stood so quickly his chair fell backwards.

"Let me have it," said Mark, his voice quiet yet simmering with anger. "Let me have your true feelings like you've wanted to since the very beginning."

Peter looked taken aback. "What are you talking about?"

"Bridget. She's not from a family of standing, doesn't have important connections. She's not mature or capable enough. She doesn't cook. And she's a nuisance, destined to make the rest of your life impossible."

"Mark, I—"

"I love her, and that's all that matters to me. I don't think there's a woman on this earth who can possibly live up to the standards you set for me. _I_ couldn't live up to the standards you set for me!"

"Mark!" he shouted. "What the hell are you talking about? You're not making any sense! Which standards?"

"Your criticisms, your judgments of everything I did, pushing me into competing with you…. My choices have never been good enough for you, not in the professional arena, and certainly not in the personal one." 

Peter still looked stunned. "You can't possibly think I find any fault with the work you've done in human rights law, Mark. You're brilliant, and I'm damned proud of you—and yes, I might have pushed you hard when we were younger, but you thrived under that pressure." He drew his brows together. "What have I ever said or done that would possibly lead you to think I don't like Bridget?"

"Your reaction to our living together. How you looked at me when you caught us kissing in the kitchen—and last night, when you refused to pour her more champagne. And just now, actually, what you said as you came in."

"When I came in just now," he said slowly, staring at Mark, "I was about to tell you that your Bridget had managed a miracle with the estate agent. Her methods were… _unconventional_ , shall we say, but effective. Hence the affectionate reference to her being a brat."

"Then what about this morning?" Mark asked, then immediately regretted it; that was, after all, a private conversation.

"This morning? Over coffee? Or—" The Darcy brothers were both endowed with razor sharp minds, and Peter knew in that instant what Mark meant. "You heard Augusta and I talking this morning."

"I didn't mean to listen, but I was walking by and the door was open," said Mark. "It was difficult hearing that you and your wife can't wait to get out of here and away from Bridget."

"Mark," said Peter, who smiled, then began to laugh. "We were talking about our estate agent. Completely incompetent and unwilling to stand up for us. Bridget threatened to do a segment about her company on-air if she didn't get her act together. Though 'act' is not the word Bridget used."

Mark felt like the ground under his feet had gone liquid. "So what did you want to speak to me about this morning then, if not about Bridget?"

"I wanted to beg you to allow us a few more days here."

"Why didn't you want do that in front of Bridget?"

"I didn't want you to feel pressured to say yes in front of your new fiancée when you probably wouldn't mind some privacy of your own. I suppose we could have seen about going to a hotel, but… well… Augusta really likes the warmth of your place. It reminds her of home, which she misses very much. The point is moot now, though, because Bridget's read them the riot act, and we'll be moving in on schedule, after all." Peter paced a little. "So you think I was unnecessarily harsh to you when we were children. And that I was overly critical of your previous girlfriends."

Mark said nothing.

"Mark, I did it because I cared. I could see that you needed encouragement, that you were otherwise shy and reserved, unsure of yourself. And I may have been critical of the women you'd seen in the past, but it seemed you were a bit myopic when it came to them." Peter paused. "Is that why you never told her anything about me? Were you hoping she'd never meet me?"

"You and I weren't close," said Mark. "No conscious choice came into telling her about you versus not telling her; I just didn't think of it, and I regret that now. I'm sorry."

Peter regarded him intensely. "For the record, Mark, I have not been hiding my true opinion about Bridget, planning on ambushing you at some point in the future to sabotage your relationship. I like her, Mark. I truly do. I was inclined to from the start, because Mother spoke so well of her. She's a breath of fresh air. She's funny, she's bright, and there's not an ounce of artifice about her. She has been so good with Augusta, a real friend to her during a time of extreme homesickness for her. And most importantly, it's bloody obvious she loves you, and you love her." He paused to take a breath. "I don't make a habit of lying, Mark. I was always pleasant to your previous girlfriends, but I never said anything privately to you about them that I didn't mean. So why on earth would you think my previous declarations of fondness for Bridget were in some way untrue?"

Mark suddenly realised Peter was absolutely correct; he did not have an adequate answer for his brother. "I'm sorry," he said at last. "I was just so convinced that your concern would lie in the perfect merger, not in—" He stopped short just as it occurred to him why the change in his brother had happened.

_In love._ It was suddenly so obvious to Mark, evident in the care and concern for his wife's well-being, and his joy in Bridget's part in contributing to her happiness.

At that, Mark felt a smile play across his lips.

"What?" said Peter.

"You are completely in love with Augusta," said Mark, grinning broadly. "That's the piece of information I was lacking."

"Of course I am," he said, utterly confused. "I married her. Why does this surprise you so much?"

"Because the Peter I knew so well didn't believe in love." Mark was starting to chuckle now. "He wanted a woman with the proper pedigree, the right connections, equally competitive in all aspects of life. Don't get me wrong, I like her very much, but I simply thought you'd found an exceptional companion with whom to join forces." He thought about the lack of physical affection he'd witnessed, but to be fair, Peter was more restrained in that regard than Mark had ever been. The scene in the kitchen must have been hell on earth for him.

Peter was obviously fighting a grin too now. "You're a fine one to talk, Mark," he said. "I never got the impression that you believed in love either, at least not until it was so obvious with Bridget." He started chuckling too. "Look at us. We thought we'd be sceptics 'til the bitter end… until it actually happened to us."

It was a marvellous feeling to sit there with his brother and finally feel like they were peers and on equal footing. He was grinning, Peter was grinning, and at the same time they moved towards each other for a brotherly hug. "I am glad you have someone you love as she is, without reservation," said Peter quietly.

"I'm glad for you, as well," said Mark, patting his brother's back before they pulled apart. Mark then drew his brows together. "Where are they, by the way?"

"What?"

"Bridget and Augusta."

"At Bridget's insistence," began Peter in an almost portentous tone, "we picked up celebratory pizza for supper."

"Oh," said Mark, thinking of the three chilling bottles of Chardonnay in the refrigerator. "We should go eat."

In reaching the kitchen he found his suspicions were correct. Half of the first bottle was gone and the two glasses Bridget had already poured were mostly empty. "Hurrah!" said Bridget, holding her glass aloft. "To closing in the morning!"

"Hurrah!"

They then downed the remainder of the wine they had. Mark had never seen Augusta tipsy before. He fought back a laugh.

"Getting started early?"

"Oh, Mark! Peter!" Bridget stood, wobbling a little, then threw her arms around her fiancé. "Just in time for pizza!"

"You haven't had food yet?"

"We were waiting for you."

"Clearly had no compunction on waiting to start in on the wine."

"We have to celebrate the closing tomorrow!" Bridget went and slung her arm around Augusta's shoulders. "I'm gonna miss you though. At least you'll be close by." 

With a broad smile, Augusta leaned into Bridget. "I'm more grateful for that than I can say," she said. "And your friends are lovely too."

"Aw, they love you too!" said Bridget. "Come on. More wine."

"How about some pizza first?"

Both brothers said it in unison, causing both women to burst into uncontrollable laughter. It was nice to see Augusta uninhibited and laughing. Bridget had been a good influence on his own reticence, and it would seem that influence no less diminished in her future sister-in-law.

………

"We're going to be late."

For once, it was Bridget urging him to hurry up. They were supposed to go early to help set things up for Peter and Augusta's housewarming, but he was having trouble locating the card he'd purchased for them. "Bridget, have you seen the envelope?"

"Which one?"

He drew his brows together. "The card for Peter and Augusta."

"I have it in my handbag."

Mark covered his face with his hand. "You might have mentioned that sooner."

"Sorry."

He smiled, then chuckled. "I guess we can go, then."

"Yep. Let me grab the present."

"The what?" Their present to his brother was six place settings in ivory gilt-edged china, due to be delivered within the week.

"The kettle."

"Which kettle?"

"The _kettle_ ," she said. "You know, the ladybug kettle."

Mark had somehow missed the purchase of this object, but felt it best not to say anything admitting to same. "Oh."

"I thought it would brighten up the kitchen. You know."

"Yes." He felt himself fighting a laugh.

She did not notice, only furrowed her brow. "You don't suppose they already have one, do you?"

"I can guarantee you," Mark said, unable to hold in his chuckle any longer, "that they do not already have a ladybug tea kettle."

Since their house was within walking distance of Peter and Augusta's, Mark decided that even with a tea kettle in tow it might be best to walk, as parking might be at a premium. Upon arriving, he wondered if they should have brought the car, after all, because Peter and Augusta had a gift of their own for the newly engaged pair. Peter insisted that they open it before anyone else arrived. He let Bridget unwrap it, because she always did with an unholy glee.

"What on earth…" began Mark, trailing off, holding the envelope his brother had given them without yet opening it.

"It's not as charming as the one we had as children," said Peter with a bemused smirk, "but I hope you can put it to good use…"

Safe and secure in its packaging was an inflatable paddling pool. Bridget blushed, but smiled then laughed. "I love it."

"I know how much you have enjoyed paddling pools in the past," said Peter, "though I'm not sure Mark's limbs won't hang out the sides should you try to enjoy it together."

At that Mark felt his own face flare with the heat of embarrassment.

"That isn't the only gift," said Augusta, handing Bridget an envelope. She tore it open as Mark looked over her shoulder to see what the card said. It was far more whimsical than he would have imagined, a cartoon of a regal-looking cat being snuggled by a fluffier one with a playful look on its face, and a caption inside that read, "You bring out the best in each other. Congratulations on your engagement!" Within the card was a certificate for a couple's day at a local spa.

"We thought you both deserved something nice," said Peter. "And what else do you get the couple who has everything?"

"Makes our gift to you seem completely mundane," he said, handing Peter the card with the note in it about delivery of the china.

As he opened the card and read the note, he smiled. "Thank you."

"It's similar to the one Mother uses for Christmas dinner."

"Your taste is impeccable, Mark," said Peter. "I'm sure we'll love it."

"And here's a little something for now," said Bridget.

She handed the box over to Augusta, who giggled as she opened it. "Oh, I love this!" she said, snapping the whistling lid open and closed via the trigger on the handle. "It's adorable, and will add a lovely spot of colour in the kitchen."

Bridget beamed. "I'm glad you like it." She cast a look to Mark that was impossibly smug.

"So," said Mark. "How can we help?"

Augusta had been cooking all morning—as evidenced by the platters of hors d'oeuvres lining the kitchen counters—and she now asked for Bridget help to bring the food, plates and silverware to the dining room. Mark and Peter were charged to uncork the wine, get the wineglasses, make the coffee and get the accoutrements for lightening and sweetening the same.

"You know, I'm very much looking forward to your getting married," said Peter just as he finished grinding the coffee. Bridget was putting a stack of places and forks on a tray.

"Oh really?" she said, not looking up.

"Oh, yes," he said. Mark could see Peter was smirking. "I've always wanted a younger sister to harass."

Mark glanced to Bridget and saw she was smirking as well, at least until she stuck her tongue out at him.

"Such class, such dignity," said Peter. Mark could see now in light of everything that had changed that he said these things with affection, and chuckled too.

She grinned as she picked up the tray. "I aim to please."

The doorbell sounded out at that moment. Augusta smiled. "I'll get it."

………

The party itself had been a great success. For those who arrived who knew Mark and Bridget also—and even some of those who did not—brought lovely tokens of congratulations on their engagement. Mark very much looked forward to his brother and sister-in-law living so close to Bridget and him.

Mark was thankful they had walked, as he'd had a bit too much wine during the course of the party. They left their gifts behind as, hand in hand, they strolled down the street towards home, the moon full in the sky, the relatively warm breeze ruffling through Bridget's hair.

"Practically perfect night," she sighed, offering a smile up to him.

"Practically?"

"Well, aside from another mortifying reminder of the paddling pool."

He laughed.

"It's not funny," she said, though she was still smiling a little. "Your brother's seen me naked."

"You were four."

"Details," she said. After a thoughtful moment, she added, "We'll have to go back with the car tomorrow for our things."

"Mm-hm," he said.

"Because it's supposed to be hot," she went on, "and I might want to take a dip in the pool."

Mark would have laughed if he thought Bridget was kidding. He wondered precisely what his expression looked like, though, that had caused her to burst out with a laugh of her own.

"I'm only sorry," she said, "that we can't fully recreate the experience."

At that he laughed, knowing she was referring to the 'naked' portion of the whole story. He let go of her hand, took her around the waist and pulled her close to him, pecking her cheek.

"I'm not joking," she said, the pout on her face evident in her voice.

_The end._


End file.
